Ten Beautiful Lines
by IAmAMoth
Summary: Arthur is drunk. He's also a writer and he has certain responsibilities. What he does is to stop what he's doing for a moment and think about his life. Basically this is what happens when I try to reason with an OOC England.


**A/N: Human AU where Arthur is a writer. This is just an idea that popped up in my head. I apologize if I have offended anyone.**

Arthur was drunk. This was the first thing you'd notice when you looked at him with his nose red and his face wrapped up in a huge blush. His hands were shaking, and yet, he was trying to concentrate. Why, he asked himself.

The answer was simple. He was trying to write. This isn't as obvious as the first thing you'd notice since Arthur looked more like he was spacing out but he was actually exploring the depths of his mind to see whether he'd come across some fluffy lines. Cheesy indeed.

Writing was included in the list of things you should _not_ try doing when you're drunk. I don't think I need to convince you to believe that trying to be creative when you're drunk will most definitely lead to nonsense mumbling or a horror story.

Well, he was _obviously_ having problems. He hadn't had any problems with finishing his poem, which was strange, but right now he was stuck with another thing.

The title.

He felt particularly bold today, so he decided that the title should be "Poem."

Sarcastic indeed.

Poem.

Ivory moon, blinking at me repeatedly

Where I'm doomed to rest my mind goes blank

And my eyes are restless with scattered tears

Now or never, I shall accept my fate and move on

Time has come for my descending, that I do know

Thin line of life is to be cut, hope it doesn't hurt

Out of anything that could happen to my frail body

Death found me before I went crazy

I am confused and young yet ready

Elegant knot suffocates me

Arthur mostly wrote stories. Long stories bored him and he quickly lost his will to write, so he wrote short stories instead. About anything, really- from descriptions to his mind wandering free and his pen quietly taking note of random ideas, from abstract and meaningless melancholy to romance with lots of angst.

The last one was the one he was stuck with writing at the moment.

Well, he didn't write _only_ stories. They were _mostly_ stories.

And, _occasionally_ , poems.

There was a reason for that.

He hated the fact that Franchis (his editor and arch nemesis) had tricked him into writing a romance book. (And a romance book with _poetry._ ) He was easy to manipulate when he was drunk.

Then, again, who wasn't?

He actually didn't remember how Franchis had succeeded making him write romance. It wasn't like Arthur couldn't write romance: he was actually pretty good. It was just that he hadn't tried writing something like this before. This was fairly new and the only experience Arthur had were from the really bad poems he had written for his crush at high school.

He was a bad poet. He accepted that. However his idiotic editor was desperate and manipulative. ...So Arthur was doomed to write one opening poem for every section of his book and two extras for the introduction and epilogue. It was actually a good idea -which Arthur would _never_ admit to himself- but Arthur just simply lacked the ability to put catchy lines into an order.

However, he didn't feel like writing romance or angst every day.

Today in particular.

He actually _hated_ writing romance, but it wasn't just _plain_ romance, so it was kind of OK. However, today he felt like writing about a nameless suicidal teenager and such story wouldn't be fitting for his book.

The fact that he had to write a poem didn't help, either. He wasn't inspired, had no idea what to write and _had to_ write, which was frustrating. And, when he wrote a poem, it always mirrored his deep fears- no matter how cheerful he tried to act, he could only write about isolation when he felt depressed. This was one of the reasons why he preferred writing stories to poems. He had feared that this poem would turn out to be sadder or darker than intended and you know what, he didn't actually care anymore.

Sometimes he hated his life. He really didn't have a decent reason but he did and you couldn't really blame it.

Emotions don't understand the language of humans.

Oh, and he felt suicidal though he was too afraid to try anything, too. He had no actual reason. He actually felt bad for feeling this way. There were people out there, suffering the very same emotions, and yet he was sitting in his room, drunk and complaining about his temporary sadness. He didn't deserve to be here.

Oh, how idiotic he was. He had a job and enough money to live, though he was drowning in self-pity.

So, just like that, he tried to concentrate again.

Now. There was a problem with his poem's genre.

Sure, he liked angst, actually it was his favorite, but too much angst could butcher a story. Because of this he made sure to add some romance or at least some humor into his stories. Melancholy was his favorite as long as black comedy accompanied.

However, when he wrote angst with romance, angst was the main focus of his story. This time, he was forced to write heavy romance and he didn't know how he was supposed to do _that_.

He focused on what genre his poem was, but his mind went blank.

He could write a lot of things. He could be romantic or write horror. He was good at naming what exactly he wrote, too.

At least most of the time.

This poem, however, was not angst, romance, sci-fi or anything he could think of. This poem...

This poem was supposed to be about love.

It wasn't.

The poem was about how Arthur felt like that particular day, drunk and trying to gather his thoughts to write a decent poem which'd soon turn out to be too dark for him to add to his book. A poem which showed how sad he actually was. How much he pitied himself though he didn't deserve that. Lines he had fished from the depths of his unconscious though his head felt like it was about to explode because of his migraine.

He hated that poem and what it did to him.

He felt like crying, so he did. Silent tears wet the paper, mixed with the ink, created a beautiful yet disastrous picture. After shedding a few, the dampness in his eyes vanished though he didn't know why. He didn't know why he cried, either. Four tiny teardrops and what they did to his feelings. (In this case, poem.)

Black tears. This was all Arthur could think of. He laughed. He made no sense when he was drunk- oh, and wait, wasn't he supposed to be a happy drunk?

Nah, guess it didn't matter.

He dumped his poem. He wasn't good at writing acrostics anyways.

Sometimes you feel like crying but can't. Sometimes you cry because but you don't want to. And, sometimes, you just cry and don't think about whether if you want to or not. Luckily those moments are surprisingly brief.

 **A/N:** **I'm sorry for the poem, I'm not a good poet, but it was necessary for the story. I also wanted this to be a bit dark but it's probably not. Oh, and Arthur has ADHD which is why his thoughts are chaotic and he has migraine.**


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